The First Date
by darnedchild
Summary: A short fic for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day Two (Non-Canon - First Date). The difference between a first date and The First Date.


**A/N:** Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day Two (Non-Canon - First Date) - Some bits of dialogue in the first scene have been shamelessly borrowed from "The Blind Banker". Unbeta'd.

 **The First Date**

As much as Sherlock was loath to admit, there were times when his mind betrayed him. Normally the whirlwind of thoughts and deductions provided useful information (perhaps not in the most expedient manner, but he usually got to the correct answer eventually); but hours of fruitless searching through boxes and crates of books, looking for 'a book that everybody would own' was taking its toll.

He had to admit that his personal library was eclectic. One would be hard pressed to find books that he would consider essential on an average person's bookshelf. He needed to think like a typical working class Londoner; which meant getting out and observing the masses, reacquaint himself with what they did for entertainment. That might give him a clue as to the sort of rubbish the Everyman might pick up at the local bookstore.

His roommate's footfalls ( _Leather soles. Rarely worn. Dress shoes. Planning to go out._ ) on the kitchen floor reminded him that he had a _colleague_ now. ( _Oh. That still stung. Colleague, not a friend. Unexpected reaction, and rather unwelcome. Will need to delete that little detail in the immediate future._ ) A perfectly serviceable brain to pick, one capable of relating to the mundane; yet intelligent enough not to send Sherlock into a boredom-induced coma.

And then there was the Yellow Dragon Circus, that would have to be looked into. Perhaps he could do both in one go.

"I need to get some air. We're going out tonight."

Sherlock took in John's dress coat and striped button down at the same moment the other man said, "Actually, I've got a date."

"What?" That was extremely inconvenient to Sherlock's spur-of-the-moment plans.

John's brow furrowed and his eyes darted around the room, as if he wasn't sure what sort of answer Sherlock was expecting. "It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

Wasn't that exactly the sort of thing he was hoping to observe first hand, to help him get into the proper mindset of the average white-collar city-dwelling antiquities smuggler? "That's what I was suggesting."

John took a deep breath. "No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not."

Within a split second, Sherlock finally assessed John's carefully chosen wardrobe, unusual heavy-handedness with his cologne, extra attention to his hair, and the slightly pitying tone he'd used when he thought Sherlock didn't understand the concept of 'dating'. It wasn't his fault that John neglected to mention that his agenda for the evening wasn't solely about seeking a few hours of comradery with a friendly acquaintance; John was clearly hoping to kindle a physical relationship with this woman.

Why did these sorts of things always boil down to sexual attraction?

For a single moment, his thoughts flitted toward Molly Hooper and the shy way she looked at him, her attraction for him practically written across her face in indelible ink. The woman adored him, and he would admit (in his own mind, if nowhere else) that he had a small fondness for her; but there was no urge to douse himself in cologne or dig through his wardrobe for something to attract her attention like a peacock trying to seduce a mate. True, he occasionally ruffled his hair before entering the morgue, or deliberately lowered his voice when he spoke to her; but those were simply manipulation tactics used to help him get his way.

None of that was about sex, and he preferred to keep it that way.

That mental tangent dealt with, Sherlock immediately pulled his attention back toward John. If his roommate wouldn't give up his plans for the evening, then there were always other options to get Sherlock what he wanted.

"Where are you taking her?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

One might argue that this evening wasn't their first date. He had, after all, spent countless enjoyable hours in Molly's company since they'd first met; and it was obvious to anyone who cared to look that they . . . liked each other.

More than liked.

In the month since the hellish incident at Sherrinford, Sherlock had come to terms with the knowledge that he loved Molly Hooper, and that she—against all odds—still loved him.

In reality there had been plenty of dates, both before (the day of crime solving when he'd returned to the living, nights spent watching crap telly together when he used her home as a bolt hole, hours in the lab or Baker Street experimenting on anything that struck their fancy) and after Sherrinford (dinner at Angelo's where they cautiously agreed to give this thing between them a chance, more crap telly and experiments, fish and chips just off Marylebone Road).

But this was going to be their First Date.

The subtext that had hidden behind John's overly-simplified definition of a date so many years ago had been weighing heavily on Sherlock's mind. Sexual Attraction.

Sex.

Not that he was expecting to have sex this evening. He knew without a doubt that he would not say no if Molly were to suggest it, he'd been able to think of little else for the last three days, but he wasn't going to assume it would happen.

After weeks of holding himself back, easing into a physical relationship with casual touches and chaste goodbye kisses that had begun to gradually grow less innocent, Sherlock was ready to take the next step.

He'd gone over his plans for the evening during the cab ride to Molly's. There would be pleasantries, he'd make sure to tell her how pretty she looked (regardless of what she was wearing—a hideous jumper, a dress, hospital scrubs—he had always thought she was pretty, he simply made more of an effort to let her know now). There would be dinner at Molly's favourite restaurant, followed by a slow walk home (he would wait half a block before reaching for her hand so as to not appear too eager). She would invite him in for a cup of tea and a bit of telly, as she always did. He'd wait for her to settle onto the sofa next to him and then he would casually and "spontaneously" kiss her. If she proved amiable, and he had no reason to think she wouldn't, he would inform her that he would like to . . .

Well, he wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say. He was rather hoping inspiration would strike at the moment and he'd come up with something smooth and romantic rather than simply blurting out that he wanted to stay the night with her, and every bloody night after that, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble he'd really like to have sex on any and every flat surface in her home. And his. And a few at Barts.

Sherlock groaned and ran his hands through his hair, one last ruffle to make sure it was mussed the way that Molly seemed to prefer. He took a deep breath, then knocked on her door.

It opened moments later, and the ability to form coherent words abandoned him. She wasn't just pretty, she was radiantly beautiful.

"Hi! Let me just grab my jacket and we can-"

Her words cut off when he stepped forward and took her face between his hands. His lips found hers, warm and insistent. Her mouth opened with the softest, sweetest sound he had ever heard, and instinct took over. He wrapped his arms around her and urged her back into the house.

Five minutes later, her lips were red and swollen from his attentions, and they were both breathing hard.

"Hi," she eventually managed to say again.

Sherlock opened his mouth to return her greeting, but what came out was "May I spend the night?"

Molly stared up at him for a long moment, then she started to smile. "I'd like that. Very much."


End file.
